


Murkh Tharkäl

by jeza_red



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: A FILL THE HOBBIT HOLIDAY EXCHANGE, M/M, Misunderstandings, a lot of kissing and some awkward tries at sex will ensue, asexual-out-of stupidity, but they are quick learners;D, hopefully it will be up to scratch:D, of a sort, or maybe ignorance?, or maybe the dwarves are just daft like that, roamnce, will be longer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:30:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeza_red/pseuds/jeza_red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Hobbit Holiday Exchange fic for Gideondorf :D </p><p>It goes like that: Dwarves have sex only with their One of the opposite sex and only as means of creating offspring. Otherwise they don't even think it's possible/necessary/pleasurable to have it at all. That's why they're all so angry and stubborn and find pleasure in gold and fighting and being badasses - all that tension has to go somewhere.<br/>Which makes everything strange when Thorin decides to take Bilbo as his Shield Carrier to honour a sacred travelling custom of the Durin's line. The hobbit is at first happy, but then it all turns to doubt when the prince doesn't seem to want to touch him intimately. At all. Was it something he did? Is Thorin disgusted with him?<br/>Well, he is a healthy male in his prime and so he ventures to ask some questions and change some age-old habits.<br/>Will the world ever be the same afterwards?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Murkh Tharkäl

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I hope that you will have fun with my little story here:D It's supposed to be a multi chapter, but sadly, life happened and I need some more time to finish the second and third one, but they will come:)  
> Happy Holidays!
> 
> See the little dictionary at the end for easier reading;)

 

Bilbo Baggins was a respectable, middle aged Hobbit and he wasn’t prone to swooning.  Not since his thirty sixth birthdays when Lilli Bracegridle, the prettiest lass in the Shire, kissed him on the lips and he’s managed to keep his composure, thank you very much!

There weren’t many reasons for him to swoon for, anyway, living a respectable life he did, buried under stacks of books and maps and stories. It was such juvenile behaviour after all, something that young lads and lasses practiced. No, he was too old for that, too mature.  

He was completely unaware that somewhere in the world someone like Thorin Oakenshield existed – a Dwarf with cool blue eyes and strong shoulders and with big, calloused hands that felt harsh, but gentle as they gripped Bilbo’s hands.

Those blue eyes peered at him from underneath thick eyebrows, serious and hopeful, and Bilbo swooned. His knees turned to cotton and it took a lot of effort to keep standing and breathing.

“Mister Baggins,” Thorin said, voice low and calm, strangely – excitingly – intimate. “My people have a… custom, if you will, for the times when journey takes them far from home, to make it easier on each other. _Murkh Tharkäl_  we call it; a companion that shares the hardships of the road and loneliness.”

Yes, Bilbo’s knees were definitely softer than cotton now. He could only stare like a calf at the usually imposing Dwarf that didn’t look so imposing all of a sudden. There was something on Thorin’s face, some sort of vulnerability that struck a chord in the Hobbit’s heart.  

Thorin wasn’t sure that he was being understood – Bilbo realised with a start. He was afraid of ridicule or disgust.

Well, it wasn’t that hard, was it? Bilbo wasn’t stupid after all; even if the Shire was a secluded part of the world that didn’t invite strange foreign traditions, it was still a land full of thinking, feeling people who bonded with each other. It wasn’t so hard to find a kind shoulder to lean on when the loneliness became too much.

“We, the Hobbits, don’t really travel much,” Bilbo tried to make his voice sound sure and steady while at the same time trying to forget that his hands were still trapped between him and the Dwarf. “But, eh, I suppose you already know that. Right,” he set his shoulders and wondered what he is doing. “Some of us are not strangers to loneliness, though.”

He could swear that Thorin’s fingers twitched a bit at these words.

“There was no sign of a spouse in your home,” the Dwarf remarked calmly. “I assumed that…”

“You assumed well,” Bilbo hurried to reassure.

Oh bother, how awkward it was!  

“What I meant to say is that… some of us don’t marry, and after a while it can be lonely and, well, there are ways of dealing with that so…“ It was so awkward to just talk about it in the open! In the Shire things like that were simply… understood, there was no need to discuss them. What happened behind closed doors was a private matter. “I mean to say that… I understand what you’re saying.”

“And you’re not… opposed?” The way Thorin stumbled over the word was a clear sign that he wasn’t used to talking about these things either.

Well, that made Bilbo feel a bit better about his own stilted explanation.  

But, the question remained: was he opposed to the idea of… sharing his loneliness with a Dwarf? Especially Dwarf such as Thorin Oakenshield, an exiled king of the last great dwarven kingdom? With someone so… different from anyone Bilbo has ever known and dallied with?

Well, it would surely not last forever, would it? Thorin was a king and he was just a Hobbit, no one special really, it would be a… a temporary solution at most. That notion wasn’t as unwelcome as some could think, though. The journey was starting to take its toll on Bilbo; being the only non-Dwarf in the Company was certainly tiring, even if some of them tried to make it easier on him. Bilbo feared that he will remain an outsider until the very end of this mad adventure and that didn’t sit well with him at all. Hobbits were social creatures, they thrived in large communities or small, but close knitted familial units. Here he’s had neither and it was… lonely. They’ve barely started on the journey and he was already missing his home and his neighbours, and his friends fiercely. To spend the rest of the way in this state seemed like a torture.

Here that big, burly, stubborn fool of a Dwarf was offering him a bit of companionship to make it easier. For whatever reason, (maybe Bilbo’s quick thinking when the trolls caught them impressed him a bit more than he let on?) it was an honest proposition that gave him some sort of place between the dwarrows. Thorin said that it was his people’s tradition, so maybe no one in the Company will bat an eyelash at a Hobbit dallying with their king? Surely it would be nice to once more sleep next to someone after so many nights spent curled alone in the cold.

And, if Bilbo was honest with himself at all, Thorin Oakenshield was in no way hard on the eyes. Quite the opposite, in truth. Being used to softer bellies and smaller hands didn’t mean that one could not appreciate the beauty of hard muscles and wide shoulders. A pair of clear blue eyes was also nothing to scoff at even if for most of the time those eyes were looking at you from under tick, dark eyebrows.

Bilbo has always had a weakness for blue eyes.

“Well,” he tried to make his voice sound decisive and encouraging. “I would say that yes, I am not… opposed. Quite opposite, really. I would… like to.”

This time there was no mistake, Thorin’s hands tightened on his smaller ones and an actual smile appeared on the chiseled face. A smile! Bilbo marvelled at that little victory and all too late realised that said face was getting closer and closer.

Oh! He was not ready to go that fast with it! They were yet to eat one meal together!

He almost pulled his hands free to step back in righteous indignation when a memory resurfaced in his mind that stopped him from moving. And, sure enough, it saved him from looking like an utter prat!

Of course Thorin didn’t want to kiss him. Bilbo let out a breath he’s been holding when that wide, thoughtful forehead touched his own; it was that strange dwarven custom he’s seen members of the Company preform from time to time. Unusual as it looked, he took it for a sign of affection and companionship – Kili and Fili were especially fond of sticking their foreheads together and sitting like that, whispering secrets in their own strange language that even their uncle seemed unable to understand. Why, rather violent version of the same gesture was preformed by Balin and Dwalin when the brothers met each other in Bilbo’s home!  Even Bifur, as… peculiar as he was, seemed to enjoy bashing heads with his cousins – someway always managing to do it just so the axe stayed clear of damaging anyone.

That thought caused feel a wave of unexpected warmth in Bilbo’s belly. It was the first time since he joined the Company that anyone included him in something more personal than a friendly slap on the back. This now seemed… intimate. To look at someones face from such close, having their hands entwined with his. It felt nice.

And building up from here this whole thing could grow into something very nice indeed, Bilbo thought, if given enough time.

Little did he know how wrong he was.

And how right at the same time.

 

*

 

Thorin was fairly satisfied. Well, as satisfied as a Dwarrow who found himself in an Elvish abode could be, at least. Or course, being surrounded by the leaf-ears and practically at their mercy didn’t sit well with him – wouldn’t sit well with any Dwarf born under the mountains, – the food certainly wasn’t fully adequate, and the music was un-listenable… and of course everything was much too big for them to use it with any resemblance of grace – to the joy of their hosts probably, – even the beds they’ve been offered were too tall to sit on comfortably! …well, maybe he wasn’t as content as he would like to be.

But, as an experienced ruler and a skilled warrior, he could appreciate the truth of the oldest saying in the world and freely admit that it could be worse. At least his Company was accounted for and looked after. At least they had beds to sleep in at night – even if they preferred to crowd in them like small children searching for comfort and safety, - and the food was free. They didn’t have to be happy, but after two much too close run-ins with danger they’ve already experienced, it was good to see them content.

One of them was exceptionally content.

Mister Baggins was not a Dwarrow, therefore he didn’t share their inborn dislike of the Elves; no matter how much Thorin wished to change that attitude, Hobbits seemed to be naturally drawn to the blasted creatures, even if their very presence flustered them. And the Elves, surprisingly, seemed to find his Hobbit irresistible. They weren’t even polite about it! Touching his hair and staring at his feet! As if he was some sort of curiosity or a lost child to be gawked at. Well, at least Mister Baggins wasn’t a complete pushover; that one Elf won’t try ever again to pick a Hobbit up without asking permission first. Those big feet made for a surprisingly functional weapon.

But then again, Mister Baggins was a surprise, full stop.

Yes, he was soft and coddled, too polite by part, and too timid by another, but he had his moments of surprising bravery and his mind worked well under pressure – which was mainly evident in the stealthy sarcasm that many of Thorin’s Company didn’t seem to notice.  It made Balin, however, choke on the smoke from his pipe a couple of times.  No, the Hobbit was no fool and as the journey progressed, he was staring to be less of an unwilling baggage and more of an active participant.

And his hands were very smart.

Thorin didn’t react to the heavy footsteps entering his private spot on one of the countless benches scattered seemingly at random all around Rivendell. This one was close to the room he was given and set in a quite secluded area, which was fine with him; it was a good spot to sit in for a quiet smoke and to rest from the ruckus his companions usually caused. He knew who was coming from the near silent chink of metal hitting metal that’s become familiar to him over the years. It would be a decent thing to tell Dwalin that the buckle of his left shoe needed attention, but every small advantage one could gain against the younger Fundinson had to be treasured.

Without much ado the dwarrow in question slumped heavily next to his king and went about lighting his own pipe. They sat in companionable silence for a long while, each lost in their own thoughts, but aware of the other. It was a long tradition between these two, to have a quiet smoke at the end of the day, dating as far in time as Erebor, when both were still young and more often than not coughed the smoke instead of breathing it out.

“Well,” Dwalin spoke first, relaxed and seemingly content. Only a keen eye could see it for a deception it was, for a warrior such as him could never fully relax in the enemy’s territory. “Found yourself someone to carry your shield, eh? Watch it, so he doesn’t get squashed underneath.”

Thorin ‘hmmed’ thoughtfully, taking his time to blow out a smoke ring – it was rather angular and blurred, but he was working on it. Their burglar was a good teacher.

“I find Mister Baggins adequate,” he answered with quiet finality.

As a King to his people, especially one that took up the mantle in such young age, Thorin was used to having his decisions questioned. He took it in stride, grateful even, for no rulers should roam unchecked, least they bring ruin to their homes and their people. But there was one field in which no one had a right to question his choices.

Taking a  _Murkhûn_  was a personal choice that served only the two main concerned and no one else,  that didn’t require anyone’s blessing. Thorin would not expect to explain himself and even Balin was polite enough to leave it to him; even if the old adviser’s looks were slightly concerned and admonishing whenever his king’s dalliances wandered close to the borders of what was considered forward by his generation. It was quite humorous, really. When Erebor fell they’ve all had to adjust to the new, harsh life – their traditions had to undergo the same kind of transformation. Desperate search for comfort pushed aside old-fashioned pretences of decency and made “indecent” things such as holding hands in public and sharing blankets, acceptable.

Thorin, raised in traditional ways, would never allow himself to descend into straight out obscenity of course, but it was amusing to see his old teacher fuming and muttering about the stupidly daring youths. It reminded him of the times when he was just a lad, when his brother was a worthy accomplice in mischief.  

Dwalin, however, didn’t have his brother’s politeness to filter his concerns and sometimes Thorin was grateful for it. This was not such time.   

“Tiny little thing like him,” the bald warrior mused, seemingly to himself. “What kind of massage can he give you?  Dori, on the other hand…”

The quiet hum in which the statement ended told Thorin more than he needed to know about Dwalin’s own travel-born partnership. Most curious thing, he could swear that his friend was attempting to ask Nori… but that might have been just as well, the red head was trouble and Dwalin had little patience for trouble of any kind. They would as likely kill each other on the way than warm each other’s blankets. Dori by contrast was a stout, reliable dwarrow and, Thorin had to admit, the oldest Ri cut a rather striking figure.  His bearing could do with less fussing, thought, even if his strength and features were only to be admired.

Truth to be told, Thorin wondered how in Mahal’s name Dwalin, with his unkept mane and angry glower, has managed to convince the tinker to carry his shield when Dori could do so much better.

That thought, however, didn’t distract him from the obvious fishing for information.

“Some of us appreciate finer things in life, my friend,” he answered noncommittally.

“Oy!” Dwalin started. “Dori is plenty fine!”

“I don’t doubt that,” the king raised his hands in surrender. “But what our burglar lacks in strength… well, he has his uses.”  

It wasn’t a light decision on is part to approach the Hobbit and Thorin hoped that the older warrior knows enough not to accuse him of such. Indeed, it was a fully logical solution to a long-lasting dilemma.

Long travel overground wasn’t something his kind enjoyed; stress of being out in the open stacked on top of more mundane worries about finding food and shelter, and none other would feel them more keenly than a leader of the group. And while in a normal setting it wouldn’t be amiss of said leader to find himself a Murkhûn, matters complicated greatly when one was a King - crowned or not.

Choosing the burglar simply prevented any concerns about special treatment from the members of the Company. Being a completely different creature than them, Mister Baggins required different treatmentas a rule and no one would make a fuss about it. It also resolved the matter if integrating the Hobbit into the group. As different as he was, Bilbo was a contracted member that Thorin could not afford to lose now – and having him to be a loose tread at the end of the column would result in exactly that.

In this instance being Thorin’s shield carrier wasn’t a position of power, and it gave the Hobbit a temporary place amongst them. It also notably raised the chances of his survival as now he was Thorin’s responsibility, – which in turn somewhat settled Gandalf’s worries.  

These were all logical reasons for his choice and Thorin knew that Dwalin understood them.

However, he was also aware that his friend knows him better than anyone, save Dis, so he almost expected him to snicker and shake his tattooed head in pity, “You were always a dog for cuddles.”

Thorin didn’t even try to deny. Instead, he showed his teeth in a very satisfied smile.

“He fits perfectly,” there was no shame in the statement at all. “And his hands are very soft.”

The warrior roared with laughter and punched him in the arm, all concern lost form his face, making space for wiggling eyebrows and a rather shrewd grin.

“He does have some tiny fingers, I’ll admit. Bet he could even plait that excuse for a beard you carry around.”

At that Thorin was forced to pretend that the side of the pipe he carved himself decades ago is suddenly something entirely new to him. He could feel red tinting his cheeks and tops of his ears, because, Mahal’s beard, how crude was that! Yet still…

“Mahal bless him, he’s trying.”

He rest of the evening they’ve spent in companionable silence. Thorin didn’t trust his friend not to choke on the air again; such death would be simply embarrassing.  

He was as content as he could be. Moon was closer to the state that would finally allow them to leave this accursed place and the journey didn’t seem so daunting anymore. And, against all odds, it turned out that he’s made a good choice with Mister Baggins. He was glad.

 

*

Bilbo Baggins was close to despair.

Sitting on the bench that a smiling Elf kindly set on the balcony adjoined to his room, pipe in hand and head stuck in a cloud of smoke, Bilbo Baggins was a Hobbit dangling at the end of his line. And make no mistake; it wasn’t a short line at all. No, as far as ropes went, this one was actually quite long – as long as the path from Trollshaws to Rivendell crossed on foot  – he was a Hobbit after all, and it was just good manners to try and let the situation resolve itself in its own time. Hobbits were not at all fond of rushing things.

However, even the most patient of creatures had its breaking point and Bilbo was quickly approaching his. It’s not that he was some sort of a wanton creature that wanted to make all his dalliances as physical as possible, goodness no! He was a healthy male in his prime, it was true, but he was also a gentlehobbit and that carried some weight. His status as a bachelor didn’t mean that he was destined to spend his life alone, barring the occasional company of his right hand. Shire didn’t deny him his liaisons, - as long as he didn’t look to cause grief and kept his conduct polite and discreet, no one felt inclined to bat an eye.

There were indeed a few nice lasses that didn’t care to marry, who invited him once in a while to sample their excellent cooking and something more after the dessert too. There were even a few lads that happily offered a helping hand when the mood was right. Bilbo could pride himself – if he was vain enough – on being well versed in different ways of giving and experiencing pleasure.

Well, enough versed at least to still be considered entirely respectable. He was also an epitome of discretion and that made him a very good partner indeed.

It was the reason he was rather nervous when Thorin asked him to share his company. He wasn’t sure how Dwarves…  _did things_ … and it wasn’t as if he could just ask, was it? Surely not, no proper Baggins would ever commit such faux pas! Propriety kept him completely unprepared and forced him to play it by the ear – Dwarves had probably their own signals for things and situations, their own little code of conduct when it came to this sort of relationships.

Well, as it turned out, he shouldn’t be so worried, for Bilbo was lost more than he thought possible.

It wasn’t that the signals weren’t there or that they were incomprehensible.

It was that the signals Thorin kept sending him were never followed up with anything.

Thorin was a strong and serious figure, a real king, if Bilbo ever knew one. He directed the group with merciless efficiency, pushing them forward and dealing out duties and responsibilities in a stern way that any other Hobbit would only scoff at - as, in their heads, there was never a reason not to ask for something politely, and skipping this simple courtesy was a sure mark of a ruffian. But this particular Hobbit was able to see that the demands were never too high, that the King has never crossed the line with his expectations. And while he wasn’t exactly pleasant with his regard, he cared about his rag-tag group.

And he cared about his burglar.

And that lead back to the  _signals_.

Thorin was not a very tactile person on daily basis and it didn’t take a genius to see that simple fact - most of his affection went to his nephews and that showed only in slightly softer expression when he looked at them or in the way he gripped their shoulders when one of the boys did something right. It was only when battle and danger rained on their heads that the proud Dwarf stepped froward to shield his lads from harm.

Thus it was quite a shock for Bilbo to discover that Thorin Oakenshield is a cuddling sort.

The Dwarf rarely slept when they were travelling, even when someone else was on watch, but oftentimes he would lay his sleeping bag next to Bilbo’s as unceremoniously as you please! Some mornings Bilbo woke up with his face pressed to the strong chest, with a thick arm resting across his waist and a heavy fur coat shielding him from the night’s cold. Not that it wasn’t lovely, exact opposite actually, since the nights were never pleasant to spend on the ground, but… But when the morning came and Thorin awoke - there was nothing that Bilbo was so used to from his previous partners. The Dwarf woke up, sat up and either greeted him with a curt word or a nod, or just told him to hurry up and get his things, they didn’t have all day to dally.  

Hah, if they  _dallied_  for only a minute!

Then there were these other times when the king sat by the fire, close to Bilbo - closer than it was completely necessary. These times when the rest of the Company was scooting away form them, to give them space and some amused looks were exchanged between younger members of the group. Times when the Hobbit could swear that Balin was about to get sore throat from all the ‘harrumphing’ he did.

As if they were doing something other than simply sitting side by side!

Then there were the times when Thorin offered Bilbo food from his own plate - which was incredibly embarrassing for the burglar until he realised that for the Dwarrows this gesture didn’t seem to have any special significance. Say, Dwalin and Dori often shared their bread, same with Bofur and Nori, and Torin’s nephews seemed like they would be perfectly content if there were suddenly just one bowl and spoon left in the whole wide world. Something that no respectful Hobbit could ever accept.

There were times when the group had a chance to stop by some stream or river and used the time to try and wash the grit and grime of their bodies - well, at least Bilbo assumed that’s what others were doing, because he was so busy righting himself up and not looking at his companions. Whenever he wandered to far from the camp, it was Thorin who came to get him. In any other scenario this would be a ploy for some time alone; if it was anyone else than Thorin, Bilbo would be kissed silly before he’s manged to get a word in.

But, since this was Thorin Oakenshield, there was no kissing, no touching and no tender looks. Not even sympathetic looks!

And it would be all okay, Bilbo would accept the fact that the Dwarven king is not interested in him that way - but every time he was about to stop daydreaming, said Dwarf turned around and did something that reignited his hopes again.

Thorin would take his hand as they were settling down for the night and stroke his fingers, as if they were a litter of tiny mice. He would ask Bilbo to tend to his hair - and Bilbo wasn’t stupid, even he was aware how important of a task that was. No one touched Thorin’s hair apart from him and the boys. Sometimes the king would try to do something about Bilbo’s hair and no amount of explanations that yes, Hobbit’s hair is supposed to be this curly and unruly, would persuade him to stop.

These were not small, accidental things, Bilbo was sure. Thorin was always looking at him and looking after him, and there were times when he was genuinely kind and thoughtful.

But he  _never_ followed it up!

The most Bilbo got from the king was a handful of embraces and a few of these strange forehead-touches his kind was so fond of.

When he’s agreed on ‘sharing loneliness’ this wasn’t what he's had in mind. Blast these Dwarves!

And yet, there was this small thought in Bilbo's mind, a small nagging voice telling him that maybe it was his fault? Maybe he was missing some vital cue? Maybe he wasn’t appealing enough? Maybe he wasn’t showing his interest strongly enough?

That voice was the main reason he didn’t simply ask. This was  _not done like that_  in the Shire! No one talked about it, it just…  _was_. There were signals and signs and… and no one had to say it out loud!

Signals and signs that Dwarves apparently could not understand, too subtle for their stubborn heads.

In the end Bilbo started to believe that, if he ever wanted to get this whole situation straightened out, he would have to be the one to act. And act decisively.

 

*

 

And act he did.

Sadly, it backfired.

 

*

 

“He did this thing with his mouth.”

“What thing?”

Dwalin looked at him expectantly while Thorin tried to find words to describe the ‘thing’ Bilbo Baggins did. It was a queer thing, that’sf or sure. And to do it so brazenly, out of nowhere, just when they were coming back from the gardens, both silent and pensive. Thorin was quite upset with the overheard conversation between the Wizard and the bloody Elf, but the words he exchanged with Bilbo - about their respective homes and experiences of the youth, - were soothing in some way. He wasn’t as angry as he expected to be and Mister Baggins looked content, also.

It was probably the reason why Torin allowed him to step so close - he was a bit surprised, to tell the truth, because it was the first time that his  _Murkhûn_  initiated contact of any kind… It’s just that the ‘contact’ wasn’t at all what he was expecting.

“He touched… his mouth to mine,” he said in the end, unable to name the strange occurrence and bothered by it.

“Huh,” his friend answered eloquently, taking a long drag form his pipe. “Did he bite?”

“No, not at all,” Thorin was quick to assure. Dwalin took his job as a royal guard very seriously and, friend or no friend, should their burglar ever cross the line of what’s appropriate there would be bloodshed. They could not afford bloodshed in ranks. Unless it was Nori. “It was all very light and quick.”

The halfling just climbed on his ridiculously big toes, grabbed Thorin’s arms and… touched their mouths together.

“What did you do?”

“I asked him what was he doing.”

“And?”

“He ran.”

Exactly. Bilbo Baggins took one look at the confusion on his face, mumbled something incomprehensible, blushed and then turned tail and disappeared between rose bushes while Thorin stood there like a fool, rooted in place by incomprehension.

“Huh,” Dwalin repeated, this time with more emphasis. His powerful shoulders dropped in a shrug and he released a cloud of smoke from his lips before answering. “That’s…  strange, that. But come to think of it, I’ve seen folks doing it before, though they were Men.”

“Did you?” Thorin turned on the bench with sudden interest. “And how did it go with them?”

“Men and their women touched mouths on occasion in one of the rundown towns I worked in ways back. Never looked long,” the warrior shrugged again. “And they never kept at it for long, but I gather it was a sort of greeting or something.”

“Greeting?” That would make little sense. “But we’ve greeted already.”

They’ve exchanged many  _namim_  during the journey, some bolder than others, much to Balin’s despair, and even if the halfling seemed to flounder a bit with them, always lifting his head just a bit too much, a bit to the side, it was easily explained with their height-difference. Thorin has never before had a  _nomâl_  that was so small - it was exciting in some sense, but also quite vexing.

Bilbo Baggins was vexing, period.

“Maybe them halflings greet differently?” Dwalin suggested. “How am I supposed to know? It’s not me who’s dallying with one of them. Ask him!”

“Yes,” Thorin agreed. “That’s what I will do.”

He was curious now.

 

*

 

Sadly, intent was one thing, but the opportunity was something completely different. Thorin had no chance for asking his question because Bilbo Baggins suddenly decided to disappear. He was either absent or hiding in the shadow of the Wizard’s robes, where Thorin had no wish of stepping.

It frustrated him to an extent, because wasn’t the halfling his  _Murkhûn_? His companion? What was the reason for this avoidance?

The thought started nibbling at him that maybe it was his fault? Maybe he’s done something wrong. But what? They didn't argue, he didn’t offend his burglar with anything lately… did he?

Was that about this… mouths touching thing? Was he supposed to do something then and missed it? Did he break some sort of rule that halflings lived by?

How was he supposed to know! Especially that Mister Baggins was not eager to correct him.

Then other things got in the way of his intent - much more important things like his father’s map and escaping from Rivendell, and the question about proper conduct faded into the background. But never dissapeared.

 

*

 

Meanwhile, Bilbo Baggins was so embarrassed and mortified with his own boldness that he could not look Thorin in the eye. His advances were not appreciated and the only thing they’ve got him was a look of surprise and uncertainty.

In this one moment, after kissing the Dwarf, Bilbo realised that he’s never miscalculated so badly in his life and so he fled, unable to even apologise properly.

Humiliation and guilt kept him away from the king, wishing he could turn invisible or turn back time. Wishing on occasion that the earth would part and swallow him whole.

He didn’t count on the fact that Valar had a sense of humour.

 

*  

 

Hanging on the ledge with one hand, belted by rain and wind, Thorin was torn.

On one hand he was just coming down from the heights of terror brought on by the thought of loosing his younger nephew.

On another he was cursing himself and his stubborn pride for not fulfilling his duty as a  _Zagarûn_  to his  _Murkhûn_! He was not attentive enough, he did not kept the halfling close and it was his fault that now his burglar was hanging off the same ledge with pale face and terrified eyes. His fault.

It made him angry and, not even intending to, he snapped at the Hobbit as soon as they were safely tucked against the stone wall of the path. “You are like a lost lamb! Stay closer next time!” Or something to that effect. He even added an expletive in Khuzdul that got him a scoff from Balin and raised eyebrows from his nephews.

Then he almost kicked hismelf because  _now_  his  _Murkhûn_  was looking at him with these big grey eyes, and there was hurt in them and fear and it was despicable what he was doing.

As time went by he started to forget that the Hobbit was a different creature and required different treatment form his Company. He was the weak link and it was a height of stupidity to ignore that fact. It was his fault that he did it, no one elses.

And yet, Thorin was a Durin and his temper escaped him much too easily: that’s why he took a while to calm down; he walked among his people and checked on each of them. Stone giants were still battling outside of the cave and their sole presence shook everyone to some extent. Dwalin was tense, him and Dori sitting hand in hand, Ori flanking his brother from the other side. Nori, interestingly, chose to stay with the Urs, his hand wandering often to rest on Bofur’s sleeve. Bifur, as always peculiar in his caring, took to trying to right his cousins’ hair and clothes. Gloin and Balin sat on the far side from others, discussing the whole experience in hushed whispers, seemingly disagreeing a lot. Óin, amazingly unperturbed, fell asleep.

Fili and Kili curled around each other like kittens; with their foreheads touching, they were just breathing, for once silent. It was a childish reaction, but Thorin decided to leave them to it.

The thought of his own loss tugged at his heart and  _finally_ allowed him to let go of his anger for long enough to look at the little spot in the corner of the cave that their burglar decided to hide in. And it was hiding, there was no mistake, because usually Bilbo took at least a couple moments to exchange banter with others or to eat, or even dry.

They were all a tired, wet, miserable mess, but… the sight of his own  _Murkhûn_  curled up in the corner like that didn’t sit well with Thorin.    

 _Eh_ , he decided,  _no time like present to try and fix things._  They couldn’t afford misunderstandings on the road.  

 

*

 

Bilbo was cold to the bone, wet and tired as never before in his entire life. Not even an hour ago he’s been hanging for dear life off the side of some dreadful mountain while three other mountains threw stones around and his mind and body didn’t yet came to understand that he’s safe now.

All in all, when Thorin Oakenshield approached his little hiding spot, he was on the lowest low one could imagine.

It didn’t even faze his dignity now, as crumbled and full of holes as it was, when he curled up even tighter in a show of outright cowardice. If there was more scorn coming from the king, he would take it like that, sitting.

If he wasn’t so tired he would’ve flinched when the Dwarf kneeled in front of him and reached out, - but he  _was_  very tired.

And yet, not tired enough to keep his head down when a question was asked over it.  

“Are you unharmed,  _murkhûn_?”

He…

“I’m not,” he whispered back, looking at the Dwarf in surprise. “I’m… sorry.”

Thorin nodded sagely, clearly accepting the apology, but not playing in any kinds of silly reassurances of ‘ _it wasn’t your fault'_ or _'it's nothing'_. It was and he would die, they both knew it; but then they also knew that there was nothing to be done about it. Bilbo wasn’t a Dwarf.

He shivered, in relief and just from cold, and, quite predictably, there was an arm winding its way around his shoulders and pulling him closer to the wide, hard body that seated itself between him and the rock of the wall. It was a testament to how miserable Bilbo was feeling that he didn’t even feel embarrassed by the proximity, nor vexed by the mixed signals Thorin was giving him  _yet again_. They were both wet and cold and tired, and seeking warmth and comfort was a normal thing in these circumstances.

“So, the… thing with touching mouths.”

Bilbo was a stupid,  _stupid_  Hobbit.

A stupid Hobbit trapped in a corner with a Dwarf that wanted answers that were just too embarrassing!

“Yes?” he muttered, feeling his face reddening.

“Is it an important element of your culture?”

Startled, Bilbo looked up, only to curse the darkness around. He could not see, if Thorin was joking or not. “What…? Well, I guess that it is…?” so he responded carefully.

The king made a sound of understanding and his arm tightened a bit before he leaned lower and his voice turned softer and more official at the same time. “I apologise then, I wasn’t aware. Do you use it as a way of greeting?”

What? Why was he asking that?

“Do we…? I mean, yes? Sometimes?” Bilbo felt completely out of his depth. And then an awful though crossed his mind. “Wait. Thorin… don’t you know what a kiss is?”

That was silly! Of course he would know, everyone knew!

“I wouldn’t ask, if I did,” the answer was colder this time. “You Shirelings and your strange customs were never a worry of mine!”

That was impossible!

“Wait, wait,” Bilbo wiggled a bit and shifted until he could face the Dwarf somewhat. He still couldn’t see more than a few softer shades where the face was supposed to be, but that would have to do, he was sure that Thorin could see him and that was important. “I wasn’t mocking you, just… it’s a kiss, Thorin.”

“I’m aware of that now!” sharp whisper cut through his feeble words. “What I want to know is what you use it for and why do you want to implement it on me!”

“I… I like you.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” This time Thorin’s voice was full of confusion and a bit of defensiveness. As if the question of ‘feelings’ never entered his mind.

Bilbo could feel his face darkening, but sheer amazement and disbelief kept him talking.

“A kiss is a way in which we, Hobbits, express it,” he whispered, trying to gauge the closeness of the others by the sounds of their snoring. “There are of course different kinds of kisses. My mother used to kiss my knocked knees so they wouldn't hurt as much. And she kissed my head to show me that she loves me. Parents kiss their children’s foreheads and friends kiss on the cheeks to greet one another, especially lasses. And then there are kisses that married couples use to show their, eh, affection. And…”

“So  _it is_  a part of your culture.” It was almost possible to hear, the moment when enlightenment rained on the dwarrow king.  

“Not only ours, I would like to hope. Do Dwarrows not kiss?” Bilbo dared to ask his own question.

He’s got a shrug in the answer and a, “Not that I’m aware of.” With the underlining message that if Thorin was not aware of it, no one else was either.

“So how do you...what do you do to show someone that you, well, care?”

He started when a big, warm hand landed on his chin and pulled his head up and to the side, so that the Dwarf could touch their foreheads again in that nice, but puzzling gesture.

“ _Namim_ ,” Thorin whisper carried a sort of quiet reverence. “We breathe the same air.”

Oh.

_Oh!_

“Oh my…” Bilbo mumbled around a mouthful off abashment. “So that is…  _oh_. It’s surprisingly poetic, you know?” And before the Dwarf could take offence at the notion, he blurted out, “But I would like to kiss you.”

Predictably, Thorin leaned back.

“Why?”

“Because I like you somewhat, against all reason. And that’s what coup… companions do in the Shire. When done properly, it can be very nice indeed.”

He was a stupid and daring Hobbit. There will be songs made about him that he will never hear due to his untimely death of stupid daring.

Truth to be told, he expected to be left alone, to be pushed away. Thorin was a prideful and stubborn individual, he was also very majestic and handsome and a king at that! He would have a choice of ‘companions’ when this whole mess was over, so why would he want to dally with one silly Bilbo Baggins who was not even a Dwarf? It was wishful thinking and nothing more. It was…

“Properly?” was suddenly whispered into his ear. “Show me then, burglar, how it’s done in the Shire.”

It was awful. Because they were both wet and freezing and it was such a bad idea…

But Thorin’s body was warm against his side and, for once during this whole dreadful journey, Bilbo knew for sure that he’s better at something than the Dwarf. There was something that he knew how to do that the other didn’t - and he was sure he could do it well.

“Bend over here, then,” he whispered, trying to shift so that he would be facing the king. It would not do to make it a half-hearted job. “So I don’t have to strain my neck.” He was sure that the puff of air that hit his face was an expression of amusement at his fussing, but didn’t comment on it. “Just… try to pay attention.”

Thorin’s greatcoat was damp, the fur on the collar was cold when Bilbo’s fingers rested on it gently. He didn’t know how much he is allowed, so he focused on the kiss and frogot his hands. It wasn’t  _that_  hard, because as much as Bilbo imagined loosing himself in the sensation, he was painfully aware that he was the only one experienced in this endeavour. Thorin was… still. Very still. His hands, his lips, even his breath seemed to stop.

He did his best to make the experience as enjoyable as possible, his pride rebelling with every passing second of the contact that was not reciprocated. He was suddenly aware of everything around him, every sound, every snore, of all the little aches and pains in his battered body. It was strange and unsettling.

When the kiss finally ended and Bilbo fretfully moved back, the king made a low sound that seemed thoughtful of all things. Considering.

“How… was it?” the Hobbit asked quietly.

He wasn’t aware that the darkness of the cave was nothing for the dwarven eyes, that his face could be seen clearly and that the doubt and almost-fear visible in his eyes made the king smile a bit as he licked his lips carefully.

“I could stand another greeting like that,” Thorin said.  

Which, for a casual listener, didn’t mean much. But for someone who has travelled with this specific Dwarf for close to two months, these few simple words were a high praise.

Bilbo smiled faintly and leaned in once more...

...just as the floor opened beneath their feet and mad cackle of hundreds of Goblins filled the night.

 

*

 

It was maddening, Thorin was ready to admit. The way they fell right out of one danger and into another, the way Valar seemed to play with them like with toys.

The way he kept  _almost_  loosing his own  _Murkh Tharkäl_  to death and fire…!

His  _Murkhûn_  that turned out to be much stronger and braver than any of them gave him credit for. That has managed to shame Thorin with his open heart and faith in their hopeless cause. With his brave little heart.

That kept saving him even when his heart crumbled apart at the sight of the Pale Orc, at the sight of the curse his family had to bear.

He was a Durin, though, and his temper was strong enough to pick him off the ground and carry him step after step towards the Hobbit.  That temper was quick, but the feelings fueling it were honest - worry and fear, and gratefulness were a strange combination, but there it was: Thorin wasn't really angry. 

Little Bilbo Baggins, his brave shield carrier, who had small, smart hands and fit in his arms perfectly. Who was wise and quick-witted and knew a few good tricks.

Especially  _one_  came to mind as they stood on the rock, more leaning on each other than hugging, both worn out beyond words.

“I would have nothing against a proper Shire greeting,” Thorin said almost without thinking. “When we get off this rock.”

Hobbit’s face turned pink yet again, - another one of these strange quirks, but this one strangely endearing.    

“I would be glad to teach you all about it,” Bilbo answered before they both turned around to look at the Lonely Mountain.

Yes, Thorin decided, there were things he would be glad to learn.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> DICTIONARY to make things easier:D
> 
> From the depths of the Khuzdul Dictionary: 
> 
> Murkh Tharkäl - Shield Carrier  
> Murkhûn - Shieldman  
> Namim - kiss  
> Nomâl - kissed/r  
> Zagarûn - Swordman


End file.
